pulsated in the enormous vault as if the three jewels in the Magian's
girdle had mingled and been transformed into a living heart of light.

He bowed his head. He covered his brow with his hands.

"It is the sign," he said. "The King is coming, and I will go to meet
him."

II

All night long, Vasda, the swiftest of Artaban's horses, had been
waiting, saddled and bridled, in her stall, pawing the ground
impatiently, and shaking her bit as if she shared the eagerness of her
master's purpose, though she knew not its meaning.

Before the birds had fully roused to their strong, high, joyful chant
of morning song, before the white mist had begun to lift lazily from the
plain, the Other Wise Man was in the saddle, riding swiftly along the
high-road, which skirted the base of Mount Orontes, westward.

How close, how intimate is the comradeship between a man and his
favourite horse on a long journey. It is a silent, comprehensive
friendship, an intercourse beyond the need of words.

They drink at the same way-side springs, and sleep under the same
guardian stars. They are conscious together of the subduing spell of
nightfall and the quickening joy of daybreak. The master shares his
evening meal with his hungry companion, and feels the soft, moist lips
caressing the palm of his hand as they close over the morsel of bread.
In the gray dawn he is roused from his bivouac by the gentle stir of a
warm, sweet breath over his sleeping face, and looks up into the eyes
of his faithful fellow-traveller, ready and waiting for the toil of the
day. Surely, unless he is a pagan and an unbeliever, by whatever name he
calls upon his God, he will thank Him for this voiceless sympathy,
this dumb affection, and his morning prayer will embrace a double
blessing--God bless us both, the horse and the rider, and keep our feet
from falling and our souls from death!

Then, through the keen morning air, the swift hoofs beat their tattoo
along the road, keeping time to the pulsing of two hearts that are moved
with the same eager desire--to conquer space, to devour the distance, to
attain the goal of the journey.

Artaban must indeed ride wisely and well if he would keep the appointed
hour with the other Magi; for the route was a hundred and fifty
parasangs, and fifteen was the utmost that he could travel in a day. But
he knew Vasda's strength, and pushed forward without anxiety, making the
fixed distance every day, though he must travel late